“I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. I found it on the beach, just sitting there nestled inside a piece of driftwood. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. ‘I might have killed you,’ she snapped, ‘if only you did not say anything. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. I suppose it is the mirrors and decorations. “I don’t think I CAN do that,” she said. “I have a message from your sister.
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